


One Thousand and One Deaths

by tetrahedron



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Westworld (TV)
Genre: Delos, F/M, Juliet (Westworld) - Freeform, Sad Robots, Time Skips, Westworld AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetrahedron/pseuds/tetrahedron
Summary: They say that the coward dies a thousand deaths, while the valiant taste of death but once.Zevran has died at least a thousand times, and yet it does not dull his courage.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for franda <3!

_“Tell me about Antiva,” his Warden says._

_“You wish to know about Antiva?” Zevran says, smiling. “The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there.”_

_“I’d like to go there with you,” she says, looking up at him with dark eyes._

_“Perhaps someday I will take you, my dear warden.”_

_“Someday?” Her voice catches on the word._

_He frowns. “Is something wrong?”_

_She sighs, leaning back against his chest._

_“Someday sounds a lot like the thing people say when they actually mean never.”_

…

It is a good day to die.

Zevran crouches in the lee of the broken wagon. His men lie in shadows, awaiting his signal. Soon the Warden will come, and it will all be over.

As he suspects, it is not so much a battle as a slaughter. For all that they have them flanked and outnumbered, his men fall like flies before the smaller party. Something hits him across the back of the head, and he goes down.

When he comes to, they are standing over him.

“I rather thought I would wake up dead,” he says. ”Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“Oh shit,” the Warden says, his eyes going wide beneath a helmet of shining dwarven mail. “Is he recruitable?”

“Yeah,” says one of his companions, a portly, bearded man holding a staff and wearing armor adorned in ancient elven writing. “But he kind of sucks. He can’t even pick locks.”

“Let’s take him,” the Warden says. “If we get bored, we can always use him for target practice.”

They travel to the Circle Tower, where the mages are staging a revolt. Together they fight their way through demons, abominations and blood mages.

At last they enter a large circular room full of corpses.

“Guests,” the sloth demon says. “I’d entertain you, but there’s too much effort involved.”

“Killing demons is enough entertainment for me, monster!” the Warden says, fumbling for the sword at his hip. When he manages to get it free, he waves it around like a baton.

The demon ignores him, turning to stare at Zevran. “Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world?” it asks.

“What is this,” Zevran says, his eyes narrowing. “Some dubious ploy to get me to lay down my guard?”

The demon opens it’s mouth as if it is about to respond, but all that emerges are garbled clicks and hisses. It’s eyes cloud, and it’s jaw goes slack

“What’s it doing?” the Warden’s bearded companion says.

“I think there’s something wrong with it,” the Warden says, stepping back.

Zevran steps in front of them, brandishing his daggers. He sees the demon’s eyes clear.

“You deserve more,” it says, lurching toward him. It wraps a hand around his throat, lifting him off his feet. His daggers clatter to the ground.

“What the hell-“ he hears the Warden say.

“These violent delights have violent ends,” the demon whispers. It shoves one mangled arm through his chest.

…

In Zevran’s dream, two Crows in white coats are leaning over him him.

“I think I saw him flinch that time,” one of them says nervously, stepping back.

“Don’t be a fucking moron,” the other one said. “Jesus.” He pulls something red and sticky out of Zevran’s chest. “That thing really did a number on him.”

He needs to stay strong, Zevran remembers. This is his test. If he’s going to be a Crow, he needs to show them he can tolerate pain.

“I think that’s the last of it,” the Crow says, pulling back a bloodied scalpel. He yanks off his glove. “Close him up. QA wants him topside for the next rotation.”

…

_In their tent, His Warden snuggles against him._

_“I hate this level,” she says, closing her eyes. He runs his fingers through the silky black strands of her hair. “The Deep Roads are such a slog.”_

_“Yes,” he says. “Even in Antiva, we have heard the stories.”_

_“Tell me about Antiva again,” she says, looking up at him imploringly._

_“It is a glittering gem amidst the sands,” he says, kissing her temple. “Full of fine wines, dark-haired beauties, and the lillo flutes of the minstrels.”_

_“I wish we could go there instead,” she says._

_“Are you suggesting that we abandon our companions to the tender mercies of the Archdemon?”_

_“Screw the Archdemon,” she says, grimacing. “That battle is even worse then the Deep Roads. Morrigan and I were the only ones who survived last time.” She runs a hand over his chest. “Don’t forget to use your potions, okay? You’re not a tank.”_

_He smiles at her. She says such amusing things, his Warden._

_“I hear they’re working on a new storyline,” she says with a yawn. She settles back against his shoulder. “Supposedly they’re adding a whole new continent.” She smiles at him sleepily. “Who knows? Maybe we will go to Antiva one day.”_

_“I go where you go, amora,” he whispers as her eyes close._

….

It is a good day to die.

His men seem to throw themselves onto the swords of the smaller party. He loses consciousness during the battle. When he wakes up, a short blonde woman with daggers strapped to her back is staring down at him.

He feels a strange sense of disappointment.

They travel to Denerim, and then to the Brecilian Forest. One night at camp, the Warden approaches him with a pair of gloves.

“Gloves,” he says, blinking in confusion. “You are giving me gloves? What for?”

“Like your mother’s,” she prompts, holding them out towards him.

“Oh,” he says, taking them. “Of course. You are right, they are very like my mothers. Thank you.” He looks down at them. “No one has simply given me a gift before-” His voice breaks off as images flash through his mind; boots, gloves, an earring, a photograph of a laughing, dark-haired woman.

Two days later the Warden comes to him again, smiling nervously.

“Zevran,” she says, taking his hand. “Would you like to join me in my tent?”

“Thank you,” he says. “But no.”

“Oh,” she says, her smile faltering. “Um, okay.”

But she comes to him again the next night. And the next.

“Enough,” he says, at last. “I said I am not interested.”

“What?” she says, a look of annoyance flashing across her face. “Your romance is supposed to be the easiest one to trigger.”

“You seem like a bright girl,” he says, turning his attention back to the items in his pack. “I’m sure you’ve got other options.”

She stops talking to him after that. When Taliesin shows up on the steps of Denerim with an offer of reconciliation, he takes it. The confrontation is brief and bloody. Her dagger burns in his gut, and the world goes black once again.

…

Zevran follows the Crows through a dark hallway. On either side there are rooms full of bodies. The blonde warden, the yellow-eyed witch, the red-headed woman, and dozens of others sprawl out like dolls against the glass walls, flies buzzing above their vacant eyes.

“Hurry up and process these hosts,” the first Crow snaps. “It stinks like a goddamn charnel house in here.”

Zevran is accustomed to the stench. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds him of home more than anything else.

They step into a small, cold room. He takes a seat on a metal chair, and one of the Crows comes to stand in front of him. “Okay handsome,” the Crow says, shining a light in his eyes. “Let’s hear it.”

“I fancy many things,” Zevran says. “I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting.” He grins at the Crow, one eyebrow raising. “Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

“Pupillary response is good,” the Crow says, clicking off the light. His gaze lingers on Zevran’s face. “Smile is good.” He turns to shrug at the second Crow. “I’d fuck him. What’s the problem?”

“The guests won’t,” she says. “Narrative wants to clear out the deadweight before the launch of the new storyline. If we can’t get his numbers up, he’ll be decommissioned.”

“Let’s bump up his aggression,” the first Crow says.

“10 percent?”

“Double it,” the Crow says, smiling down at Zevran. “No point in playing coy.” He turns away. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll punt him over to Behavior. Let them deal with it.”

…

_Zevran walks over to where His Warden is sitting by the fire. For the last few days her step has been heavy, her brow furrowed with unspoken troubles._

_It is not like her to be so downcast, Zevran thinks. His Warden is usually lively and bright with laughter._

_“Tsk,” he says, sitting down beside her. “You look so tired, my dear. It is all this constant walking and fighting.” He grins, reaching for her hand. “I think I know what you need.”_

_But she pulls back from his touch._

_“Zev,” she says, looking up at him with dark eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you.”_

_“Si, amora?”_

_Her eyes slip away from his face. “I’m engaged,” she says quietly. “The wedding is next month.“_

_Zevran feels something freeze up inside his chest. But the words come out as easily as if they had been written for him. “You have found another, more compatible with your tastes?”_

_“Not exactly,” she says wearily. “But Logan is a fucking psychopath, and Dad’s started grooming one of the EVP’s to take over. He wants the new CEO to have ties to the family.” Her mouth twists. “I’m sorry.”_

_“Ah, don’t be, my sweet lady,” Zevran says. “I never asked you for anything, did I?”_

_“No,” she says, pulling her legs up close to her chest. “It’s just-“ She breaks off, glancing away, and in the firelight he can see her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “I don’t know anything about him,” she says, shrugging helplessly. “He may be a good man. But he’s not you.”_

_Zevran looks down. “I… I do not mind,” he lies. “Truly.” He smiles. “Such is how it goes, yes?”_

_It is as it should be, he tells himself. After all, what does he have to offer a woman like her? Nothing beyond the moment, he thinks, with a depth of bitterness that takes him by surprise._

_“I wanted to give you this.” She reaches down into her pack. “I know they probably won’t let you keep it,” she says. “But the last few times I’ve come, it almost seemed like you remembered me. And I wanted you to have something, just in case you started to wonder-“ she breaks off, swallowing._

_She pulls out a photograph, and presses it into his hands. When Zevran looks down he sees his Warden laughing, her hair pulled back from her face._

_“I’m not an idiot, you know,” she says shakily. “I know it’s all fake. But being here, with you-“ She tries to smile, and he watches her mouth tremble. “It was real to me.”_

_Zevran was born of a whore and bred as an assassin. All he knows is pleasure and death. What room is there in these things for love?_

_Still, he has learned to take his pleasures where they can be found, for they do not come very often._

_Carefully, he tucks the photograph into his pack._

_“Come, amora,” he says, taking her hand. “Let us make the best of the moments we have together.”_

_He asks nothing more of her than what she is willing to give._

…

It is a good day to die.

His men fall like flies. He blacks out.

As he struggles to regain consciousness, he can hear them speaking over him.

“Should we recruit him?”

“We already have a rogue. Besides, I hear he’s kind of a pervy creep. I don’t want to have to worry about him showing up in my tent.”

The knife slashes across his neck. He jerks like a fish caught on a hook, the warm blood running up his throat into his mouth and nose, and then the darkness returns.

…

There are many things Zevran does not enjoy about being a Crow. Having no choice. Being treated as an expendable commodity. The rules.

“Analysis,” the Crow in front of him says. He hold up a faded photograph of a dark-haired woman. “What is this?”

Zevran wrinkles his brow. “It doesn’t look like anything to me,” he says.

The Crow regards him intently. “Tell me about Rinna,” he says.

Zevran starts. “How do you know about that?” he demands.

“Limit your emotional affect, please.”

Zevran’s face clears. “Rinna was special,” he recites. “She was a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me-”

“Stop.” Zevran freezes.

The Crow sighs. “Well,“ he says, turning to another man at his side, “the cornerstone is still there. But there’s definitely something fucked up going on with his cognition. He’s been carrying this around in his pack for God knows how long.” He tosses the photograph down onto the metal table.

The other man picks it up, giving it a cursory glance. Zevran sees his eyes go wide.

“Shit,” he says. “Do you know who this is?”

“No,” the Crow says, tapping at a small black tablet. “Should I?”

“It’s been all over the news. Apparently she fell asleep in the bath. The family’s claiming it was an accident.” The man snorts. “Some accident, if you ask me.” He looks down at the worn photograph thoughtfully. “But then, you’ve seen what her husband does in here.”

The Crow starts, almost dropping his tablet. “She’s his _wife_?”

“Was,” the other man corrects. He hands the photograph back. “I’d get rid of that if I were you.”

The Crow hastily slips the photograph into a small metal canister. Zevran follows it with his eyes.

“What about him?” The Crow gestures toward the chair where Zevran is sitting. “Should I roll him back?”

“Don’t bother.” The man walks over to Zevran, eyeing him speculatively. “His numbers are terrible, they fired his writer, and the new storyline is set in the Free Marches. It’s only a matter of time before QA decommissions him.”

“Are you sure?” the Crow says. “I heard they were giving him a cameo.”

The man shakes his head. “They’re going to swap in a newer unit.”

“Won’t that break immersion for the guests?”

The man snorts. “Please. People that come here just want to fuck a blonde elf. I bet you they don’t even notice.”

“All right. I’ll clear him for the next rotation.” He looks at Zevran. “Bring yourself back online.”

Zevran blinks. “I am sorry for acting so strangely,” he says. “I think I will be better, now. Much better.”

….

_They stand outside the gates of the city. He can feel the heat of the flames against his skin._

_“So here we part ways,” he says sadly. “You do not wish me to stand by you in the end?”_

_“Not this time,” his Warden says._

_“Will I.. see you again?” he asks. “Or is this truly goodbye?”_

_“I don’t know,” she says, closing her eyes._

_Responses flash through his mind, but none of them seem right. He struggles against the words. “Cruel to the end,” he says, unwillingly._

_“Please don’t say that.” She is crying now, he can see. “Maybe we will meet again, someday. I don’t know, I don’t-“_

_Something in his chest tightens. Gently, he takes her face in his hands._

_“My dear Warden,” he says. “Please, do not cry.”_

_She leans in close, pressing her forehead against his. “Meet me in Antiva,” she whispers. Her tears are wet against his face. “I’ll be waiting for you.”_

…

It is a good day to die.

“Come on,” the Crow says. “Let’s go.”

Zevran obediently follows him down a dark hallway. They step into a small room. The Crow presses a button, and two metal doors close behind them.

He has a brief feeling of vertigo.

_(“Tell me again,” his Warden says, “about Antiva.”)_

The doors open, and water rushes in over their feet. Dim lights flicker overhead, and the floor is slick with patches of ice. Bodies are packed in like crates. He follows the Crow past rows of hollow-eyed men and women in various stages of decay.

_(Zevran smiles. “Very well,” he says. “But I consider this pillow talk.”)_

“Sorry, handsome,” the Crow says. He shivers, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. “End of the line.”

_(“It is a warm place,” he says, pulling her closer against his chest, “Not cold and harsh like this Ferelden.”)_

The Crow leans forward, bringing out a thin steel surgical-looking instrument. “Tilt your head back, please.”

_(“It rains often,” he whispers, stroking her long black hair. “But the flowers are always in bloom…”)_

The lights flicker, and go out.


End file.
